


Magic Carpet Ride

by San Antonio Rose (ramblin_rosie)



Series: Wind of Change AU [2]
Category: Mission: Impossible (TV 1966), Supernatural
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cross-Posted on LiveJournal, Gen, Nazis, Shapeshifting, Supernatural Gen Big Bang, Trickster Gabriel (Supernatural), Witchcraft, blues brothers references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29918352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramblin_rosie/pseuds/San%20Antonio%20Rose
Summary: Gabriel knows that Jim's going to need special help on this mission and prompts him to call in the Winchesters. Friendships, alliances, and assumptions will be tested as the IMF team goes down the rabbit hole into an Illinois town home to Nazis and witchcraft, and hunters and spies alike will discover that on this case, almost no one is who--or what--he seems.
Series: Wind of Change AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199885





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> After I wrote "Ring the Freedom Bell" last year, several people asked for more of the boys' adventures with the IMF. Well, this particular bunny bit hard, and spn_gen_bigbang allowed crossovers this year, so... here we are. :D There is one line of German, for which the translation is available on mouseover.  
> Many, many thanks to jennytork and auntmo9 for beta/cheerleading/brainstorming help and to ilikemyhumordry for the lovely art!

The fact of Sam and Dean Winchester’s existence had been a foregone conclusion since 1968. Orders had come down from somewhere to the cupids that Mary Campbell was to marry John Winchester and bear him two sons, and the cupids would see it done. So the arrival of an adult Sam and Dean Winchester from some distant-to-humans future in 1969 didn’t cause all that many waves... at least, not at first. But then they started changing things, and then they drafted _Gabriel_ to help them change things. Gabriel had even gone along with it, up to and including helping the boys take out Azazel in order to give both Lucifer and Michael a giant poke in the eye.

But some things couldn’t be undone. Gabriel had watched both boys anxiously as they lay comatose while the effects of killing Azazel worked themselves out in their minds, bodies, and souls. And true, a lot of memories and scars faded. But some damage went too deep to erase.

To be more specific, Dean still bore the mental and emotional scars of having broken in Hell, and Sam still had demon blood and the knowledge that in that other timeline, he had killed Lilith.

Gabriel didn’t know if that was enough, somehow, to qualify for breaking the first and last seals, and if he didn’t, neither would Mike and Luci. But somehow he needed to keep anyone from figuring out the answer and starting the Apocalypse way too soon. The easiest solution, of course, would be to just kill the boys, but Gabriel didn’t want to do that. He _liked_ Sam and Dean. There was a spark of cleverness there, of wit, of _promise_ that he hadn’t seen in humans in a long, long time. And besides that, they were damn good at dispensing justice with their own particular flair, which Gabriel could appreciate better than almost anyone.

The IMF was a wild card that worried Gabriel. Sure, the boys had done a good thing in signing up, but too many IMF members didn’t believe in the supernatural, which could leave them vulnerable to possession. And there was too much Sam and Dean didn’t know about their team members, especially the newcomer, Paris. So Gabriel decided to keep an eye on Jim Phelps, at minimum, just to make sure they weren’t in for any ambushes due to someone Downstairs—or Upstairs, to be honest—making use of him.

Thus it was that Gabriel happened to follow Jim to a rendezvous on which he picked up several photographs and a tape containing this message:

> _Good afternoon, Mr. Phelps. The man you’re looking at is known as Eric Schachtschneider. We believe this name to be an alias, since he is known to be a German national but we have no record of anyone by that name entering the country legally. Yet we have been unable to identify him further. Whatever secrets Schachtschneider may be hiding, they are known only to this man, Gunnar Herjulfsen, his closest friend and confidant. About Herjulfsen we know even less, though he was living in the US legally prior to World War II.  
>  Sometime in the last decade, Schachtschneider and Herjulfsen appear to have taken control of a cell of the American Nazi Corps headquartered in Effingham, Illinois. The Nazis are no more popular in Effingham than they are anywhere else in this country, but anyone who dares to oppose them openly dies soon thereafter. The means are not always clear, but the connection is too obvious to be coincidental.  
>  Six weeks ago, news reports began to surface regarding the American Nazi Corps cell—through its political front, the National Socialist Workers’ Party—amassing funds through means that are less than ethical, if not illegal. Shortly thereafter, Effingham began to experience a sudden increase in deaths attributed to wild animal attacks. We cannot yet determine the reason Schachtschneider wants money now, though past experience with neo-Nazis suggests that an attempt to overthrow our government is a likely explanation. However, even if his only intent is to enrich himself, more lives may be lost in Effingham if he is not stopped. Yet so far, evidence of wrongdoing has been minimal; he remains beyond the reach of conventional law enforcement.  
>  Your mission, Jim, should you decide to accept it, is to stop Schachtschneider and put an end to his organization. As always, if you or any member of your IM Force should be caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions.  
>  This tape will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Jim._

Gabriel had to stop himself from whistling audibly. He knew Effingham. He knew what was really going on there. And he knew that even for Jim and his exceptional team, the difficulty level of this mission truly verged on impossibility... unless they employed some... special help. 

Jim resisted Gabriel’s whispered suggestion, of course. After the problems the team had had in June, Gabriel expected nothing less; some random fluke had thrown that mission into a tailspin that ended with Sam having to summon Gabriel to bust Dean out of a Soviet-controlled jail before Dean’s interrogation-induced flashbacks could cause permanent damage to anyone. But Gabriel persisted in whispering in Jim’s spiritual ear, and eventually Jim was persuaded.

By the time Gabriel left Jim’s apartment, Jim had—of his own free will—added Sam and Dean’s picture to his stack of chosen agents for the mission.


	2. Chapter 1: Keeping an Open Mind

October 1969

Jim finished outlining the mission and looked around at the team to make sure everyone was following him so far. Willy, Barney, and Paris were nodding thoughtfully. Sam and Dean were giving him identical skeptical looks.

“Illinois Nazis,” Dean said flatly.

Jim blinked. “I thought that’s what I just said.”

The brothers looked at each other. “Illinois Nazis?” Dean repeated. “ _Seriously?_ ”

“Guess that makes you Jake and me Elwood,” Sam quipped.

“Oh, what _ever_.” Dean paused, then pointed at Sam in warning. “You trade my baby for a microphone....”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sam returned mildly. “I _do_ know what you’d do to me.”

“Damn straight.”

Paris raised one eyebrow at Jim, who just shook his head. Sometimes Sam and Dean had their own language even when it sounded like English.

Dean frowned suddenly. “Wait, Effingham, Illinois....” He reached into his jacket and pulled out what looked like a journal bound in brown leather, then started skimming through it.

Sam nodded. “Name sounds familiar to me, too, but I can’t place it. It was _bad_ , though, whatever it was Dad was... had seen.”

Jim wasn’t sure whether this was another case of the brothers’ off-the-grid upbringing resulting in unconventional usage, since there were automotive factories in Effingham that produced the sorts of cars he would expect Dean to like. But Dean’s agreement with the plain meaning of Sam’s assessment—that whatever it was had not been good at all—was evident from the curse that slipped out when he found what he was looking for.

Willy leaned forward. “What is it?”

“Daevas. Dad doesn’t say so, but—Jim, could you hand me that list of names again?”

Jim shrugged. “Sure.” He handed Dean the roster of the cell, and Dean handed the journal to Sam while he looked over the roster.

Sam nodded slowly as he read. “Yeah. Looks like Dad didn’t know what they were, just that it wasn’t a werewolf or skinwalker despite the missing hearts, but the description matches.”

Paris spoke up for the first time. “What, may I ask, is a daeva?”

Willy and Barney exchanged a wary look at that, as did Sam and Dean. Jim sighed inwardly. He’d been hesitant to bring the Winchesters in on this mission after what had happened the last time, but the psych evaluations both brothers had undergone upon returning to the States showed nothing worse than PTSD. He’d sent the brothers to chat with Rollin and Cinnamon, too, and they both seemed to think the Winchesters were stable enough as long as they weren’t in situations where they could be subjected to psychological torture if caught. But Rollin had confided to Jim that the Winchesters seemed to have some... unusual beliefs about the supernatural.

The rumors that they’d spent the better part of a day unconscious after going off with their friend ‘Loki’ to kill a supposed _demon_ didn’t exactly inspire Jim’s confidence, either. His most direct source had seen Loki carry the brothers into their motel room, but Loki had stonewalled any attempt to check on them or to offer help, claiming only that they were exhausted but otherwise unhurt and would be right as rain soon enough. Jim could only guess what the truth of the matter might have been.

In response to Paris’ query, Sam and Dean had some kind of silent conversation consisting solely of facial expressions, at the end of which Sam sighed and looked Paris in the eye. “It’s a Zoroastrian shadow demon. They don’t just attack humans at random; they have to be summoned. They’re savage, animalistic, and hard to control—they tend to bite the hand that wields them. And they’re not that easy to combat. The only success we’ve had is with a flare gun. No shadows in the room, the daeva can’t manifest.”

“The only success you’ve had?” Barney repeated slowly.

“That was a long time ago,” Dean replied, focused once more on the list of names in his hand. “We’ve seen worse, but— _yahtzee!_ ” He grabbed a pen, circled a name, and looked at the journal to confirm his finding.

Sam glanced at the list and nodded. “Yep. That’s him.”

Dean handed the list back to Jim. “This Gunnar Herjulfsen isn’t just a Nazi. According to our information, he’s also a witch—not a Wiccan, but a heavy user of black magic—and at some point he got the bright idea to summon a bunch of daevas to do the dirty work even his brownshirts wouldn’t do.”

“And if he’s controlling daevas,” Sam added, “there’s not much telling what all else he’s into. That takes some serious mojo, and he could be possessed himself. We should be prepared for anything.”

Dean looked over at Sam. “Wonder what would happen if we salt the door and _then_ set off the flare.”

Sam considered the idea. “I dunno. It’s worth a try.”

Paris’ eyebrows were headed for his hairline. Jim wasn’t surprised. Paris had impersonated magicians before, but their “magic” had never been more than slight of hand. He didn’t call the Winchesters crazy, however. Instead he asked, “And your information about this comes from where?”

“Our dad was psychic,” the brothers chorused—a little too easily, Jim suspected, but he wasn’t going to press the issue.

“Are you sure these attacks weren’t murders committed by humans?” Willy asked.

“No,” Dean conceded. “We’ll need to see autopsy reports and crime scene photos to be certain. Basically, we’re looking for victims who’ve been ripped to shreds, like an animal attack; no heart recovered, no signs of forced entry, weird blood spatter pattern that kind of looks like a Z.”

Jim sat back and quickly rethought his plan. “Would you be able to get that information if you were, say, federal marshals?”

The brothers’ eyes lit up, and they had another silent conversation before Sam leaned forward. “Jim, if you’re wanting to use this hunt as a diversion, there are some things you’ll need to know about how we work.”

“Federal marshal’s a good cover,” Dean said, “but don’t make the ID _too_ real if you want Herjulfsen to know we’re not Feds.”

Jim nodded. “That’ll be fine—especially since Paris and Willy and I will be coming in as ‘real’ federal agents trying to catch the two of you.”

They grinned.

* * *

The parking garage at Jim’s apartment building wasn’t a good place for Barney to get the crash course in hunting he was going to need to assume the identity of Rufus Turner, a real-life friend of the Winchesters who had agreed to play along. So he met them at their motel the next day... and almost wished he hadn’t. It was cheap. It was tacky.

“It’s _clean_ ,” Sam retorted, although Barney hadn’t said a word. “And it’s nearly new. It’s a hell of a lot nicer than most of the motels where we’ve stayed.”

Dean barked a laugh. “You think this place is bad _now_? Come back in forty years, when it’s been cleaned _maybe_ once a week for the last twenty.”

Barney had the uncomfortable feeling that Dean was speaking from experience. “Tell me we’ve got a decent place lined up for Effingham.”

The brothers exchanged a look. “It’s got a pool,” Sam offered.

Barney wasn’t encouraged.

He also wasn’t encouraged when he started going through the materials Sam had typed up for him and noted that the headings included “Werewolves,” “Skinwalkers,” “Shapeshifters,” and “Vampires.” Nor did he find the Winchesters’ private arsenal reassuring, considering that it included shotgun shells filled with rock salt, silver bullets of various calibers, holy water, and machetes. They explained the purpose of each item—including the sniper rifle—but Barney could barely absorb any of it because it all sounded so superstitious and weird. But then he caught sight of something he understood much better than the so-called monsters these people supposedly hunted.

“What’s this?” he asked, picking up a palm-sized black gadget with an antenna, a row of lights, a meter dial, and an on-off switch.

Dean cleared his throat nervously. “Uh, that... detects electromagnetic fields. Certain types of spirits, y’know, give off electromagnetic radiation; that lets you narrow down what you’re lookin’ at, maybe exactly what the ghost is haunting.”

Barney turned the detector or meter, whichever it was, over in his hand a couple of times; it looked like it was made out of some kind of portable tape deck. “Did you make this yourself?”

“Um... yeah, actually, I did.”

“Huh!” Barney studied it for a moment longer before looking up at Dean, who was visibly anxious about having an expert scrutinize his work. “You mind if I test it right quick? I’ve got some electromagnets in my van.”

Dean blinked. “No, sure.”

Barney led the brothers to his van and quickly set up a series of electromagnets of varying strengths. Then he switched on the detector and noted that it reacted to the strength of each magnet, both with the volume of the noise it made and with the number of lights that came on as well as with the indicator on the dial. “Huh!” he said again as he switched it off and handed it back to Dean. “This little gadget’s pretty clever!”

“Really?” Dean sounded like no one had ever told him that before.

“Yeah! You think you could draw up a plan for me?”

Dean practically glowed. “Yeah, sure, just... gimme a minute.” And he ran back inside.

Sam looked a little confused. “You don’t have to use one of those, even as a prop. Not every hunter does.”

Barney shrugged. “I was thinking it might have other uses. A small permanent magnet, for example, would be a whole lot safer for tagging things than even a weak radioactive isotope.”

Sam blinked. “Seriously? You really think it’s that good?”

Barney frowned a little. Sam, he knew, had been pre-law before the fire that destroyed his college and killed his girlfriend, and Dean had dropped out of high school to work with their father. But some of the best engineers he had at Collier Electronics were completely self-taught. Did Sam really think formal education was the only indication of a person’s skill? “Yeah, it’s that good. Not pretty, maybe, but it works.”

“Huh.” Barney could almost see Sam revising his opinion of his brother.

“Look, Sam... all an engineering degree proves is that you could jump through the hoops for four years. Just because someone never made it to the starting line doesn’t mean he hasn’t got the talent it takes. Not everybody _gets_ to go to college—that’s no indication of their intelligence.”

Sam frowned. “Dean’s not stupid.”

“No. He’s not. Remember that.”

Sam just looked at him for a long moment. They hadn’t talked about their personal lives much, but surely Sam had some idea of what Barney had had to go through just to get into MIT, even after his hitch with the Navy. It was easier for him in ’55 than it would have been for his dad ten years earlier, but it was still a major accomplishment. And he had still had to endure stares and sneers—no violence, really, but it had taken two years of quietly but consistently wiping the floor with his classmates grade-wise for him to earn even grudging respect from some of them. _He_ had lucked out. His brilliant parents hadn’t ever had the chance to go to college; Dad had thought seriously about trying to get into Tuskegee on the GI Bill after the war, but he wouldn’t have had any way to support the family while he studied.

Before either of them could say anything else, however, Dean returned with a pad of motel stationery in his hand. “Sorry it’s only a rough sketch,” he said apologetically, handing it to Barney. “Hope you can read it.”

Well, the lines weren’t drawn with a straight edge, but the circuitry was clear enough, and so were the labels, including the one that proclaimed the gadget an EMF meter. Barney laughed. “Dean, I’ve done more with sketches drawn on bar napkins when the designer was smashed and the words were all in Russian. This’ll be fine.”

“You serious?”

“I’m serious. And I’ll tell you what else I’m serious about. A consulting gig.”

Dean blinked twice. “Do what?”

“I know you’ve got that salvage yard in South Dakota you’re helping out with, but I’d like to hire you on as a consultant, probably on a project-by-project basis. I can use someone who’s used to thinking outside the box like this,” he added, waving the sketch for emphasis.

Dean got that hardly-daring-to-hope-but-I-think-you-really-mean-it look that Barney had seen on so many of his non-collegiate discoveries. “I’ll... I’ll think about it. Get back to you after the mission.”

Barney nodded. “Fair enough. And I’ll call if I have any trouble with this.”

Dean smiled slowly. “Okay. Hey, uh... thanks, Barney.”

Barney shook his hand, then Sam’s, and took his leave, smiling contentedly to himself. For all his concerns over the Winchesters’ bizarre beliefs and mysterious background, he did like the brothers, and being able to kindle that light in Dean’s eyes and maybe give Sam something to think about regarding his opinion of his brother... that had been worth this little walk on the wild side.

* * *

Dean was overwhelmed by Barney’s offer, Sam knew, and Sam didn’t really want to talk about the perspective shift Barney had just handed him. It was kind of unsettling to be reminded both that a college education was a privilege, not a right, and that their enemies weren’t the only ones who habitually underestimated Dean. So, in time-honored Winchester fashion, Sam cleared his throat and changed the subject.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “We’re not all that far from San Francisco”—Dean met that with a raised eyebrow—“and we could use some more information on daevas, right? Something... a little more from a monster’s perspective, maybe?”

Dean blinked. “You wanna look up Dr. Visyak?”

“Why not? I mean, other than Gabriel, she’s probably the best resource we have, maybe the best potential ally. Didn’t Bobby say she was pretty much neutral, hadn’t killed anyone since Lovecraft?”

Dean considered the idea for a moment and shrugged. “Sure, why not? Better find out if she’s in San Francisco now, though, and not... I dunno, Kalamazoo.”

Sam opened his mouth to offer to Google before remembering when they were. “Directory assistance?”

Dean nodded, and they went inside and called. Sure enough, Eleanor Visyak was a PhD and was at SFU, so off they went. She wasn’t in the mansion she would have in 2011, though, and looked less than pleased when they turned up outside her apartment after dark.

“Sorry,” she said, crossing her arms. “Office hours are—”

“We’re hunters, Doc,” Dean interrupted quietly. “We know what you are. And,” he continued as she scowled, “we’re not here to hurt you. We just need some advice.”

“About?”

“There’s a warlock in Illinois, Gunnar Herjulfsen. We think he’s controlling daevas. We’ve only dealt with those once, so....”

She studied both of them for a long moment. “You don’t belong here, either, do you?” she finally asked quietly.

“Not really,” Sam confessed.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Sam Winchester. This is my brother Dean.”

She nodded. “I’ve heard of you.” Then she took a deep breath and let it out again. “Well. I don’t know too much about daevas, but I can tell you a few things about Herjulfsen. He’s older than I am.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “Coffee?” Dean asked.

Dr. Visyak smiled. “C’mon in.”

* * *

Rufus hadn’t known what to expect Barney Collier to be like. The Winchesters had been intentionally vague in describing him, which made sense, but all Rufus had known for sure before the doorbell rang was that Collier was a smart guy and the brothers liked him.

They hadn’t mentioned that Collier was black, and given his reaction to the mezuzah, they hadn’t told Collier that Rufus was Jewish. Rufus couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

Unfortunately, the exchange of pleasantries between hunter and spy was cut short when the phone rang. Another greenhorn, Bill Harvelle, had just gotten word of a probable werewolf up in New Hampshire; Rufus, who lived in Vermont, was the closest hunter, and the full moon was just two days away. Rufus cursed quietly and took down the information.

“Trouble?” Collier asked when Rufus hung up.

Rufus sighed. “’Fraid I’m gonna have to throw you into the deep end, Mr. Collier. Got a hunt tomorrow night, and I’m gonna need some backup. You’re here; as long as you can keep an open mind, I’ll take you with me.”

Collier studied him for a moment, then nodded. “All right. But I’ll have to insist on one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Call me Barney.”

Rufus laughed. “Deal.”

For the rest of that day and on the drive to New Hampshire the next, Rufus quizzed Barney on the hunting lore the boys had given him, and Barney quizzed Rufus about the hunting life, the community (such as it was) of hunters, any specific people or memories he would need to know to be able to fool the Nazi warlock—and if that right there wasn’t proof that the Winchesters were magnets for a whole new level of weird, Rufus didn’t know what was. The hunt itself was pretty straightforward, complicated only by Barney’s scientific-method insistence on shooting the werewolf with one normal bullet first and discovering that yes, it really didn’t do anything. He seemed only slightly shaken, and that mostly from having seen the transformation. Rufus supposed that having to deal with so many monstrous humans on a regular basis would make humanoid monsters less shocking than they would be to the average civilian.

Even so, Rufus wasn’t surprised when Barney accepted a couple of stiff drinks once they got back to Rufus’ house. Nor was he surprised when the questions started after the second one—or when they turned from the theoretical to the personal.

“Sam said something once,” Barney finally said quietly. “I can’t tell you the context. But Sam said something about Dean thinking he was back in Hell. He _meant_ that, didn’t he?”

Rufus sighed. “I can’t tell you the context, either. It’s a long bizarre story that even _I_ have trouble believing. But yes, he meant that.” He paused. “He’s been there himself.”

Barney shuddered. “How the hell are they still sane?”

“Some people would say they ain’t. But they’re dealin’ with it—sort of. Strange as it sounds, every hunt they take from that journal Dean carries helps ’em heal a little more. And havin’ a reason to keep goin’ that’s not ‘the fate of the entire world depends on you getting this right’... well, it keeps ’em from doin’ anything stupid.”

Barney snorted. “Had our share of those missions ourselves—only _we_ have to deal with the Russians.”

“Think you got that ‘only’ in the wrong place,” Rufus chuckled and poured himself another shot of whiskey.


	3. Chapter 2: Predator and Prey

October 29

A young policeman knocked at the open door of an office at the Effingham headquarters of the American Nazi Corps. “’Scuse me, Col. Schachtschneider?”

“Yes?” replied the grey-haired man at the desk.

The policeman came a little way into the room. “Two federal marshals showed up today, investigating the rash of mysterious deaths. Cahill and Cooper. Seemed awful interested in the blood spatter and the state the victims were found in. Could be trouble.”

“Cooper,” repeated the other man in the room, leaning forward in his seat a little. “Marshal _Jed_ Cooper?”

The policeman blinked. “Yes, sir. Do you know him, Maj. Herjulfsen?”

Herjulfsen chuckled. “You obviously don’t watch enough Westerns, Meissner. Jed Cooper was a character in _Hang ’Em High_ , played by Clint Eastwood. It would seem we have a pair of hunters on our hands.” He drew a deck of tarot cards out of his shirt pocket. “Let us see if they are as dangerous as Marshal Cooper was reputed to be.”

The desk was hastily cleared, and Herjulfsen began laying out the cards. The more cards he laid out, the more concerned he became, though the other two men knew too little of tarot to be able to tell why. When he’d finished, Herjulfsen looked at the cards for a moment, sighed, and swiftly gathered them up again. “Dangerous enough,” he declared. “Meissner, do you have anything that they’ve touched?”

Meissner shook his head. “I’m sorry, Major.”

“Will you see them again?”

“Yes, sir. They’re still at the office, going through files.”

“Good. Let me have one of your cards.” Meissner handed over a business card, and Herjulfsen chanted under his breath for a moment before handing the card back. “There. Be sure you give them _that_ card before they leave. That should allow me to listen to their conversations, at least.”

Meissner nodded. “Very good, sir. Colonel.” And he left.

Col. Schachtschneider—alias Erich Friedrich Wilhelm Graf von Waffenschmidt, formerly of the SS—leaned back with a sigh and switched back to his native German. “What did the cards really say, Gunnar?”

Herjulfsen made a disgusted noise that might actually have been a curse in his native Old Icelandic. “Nothing,” he replied in German. “They told me _nothing_ , Erich—the pattern was gibberish! You _know_ that never happens to me!”

Von Waffenschmidt did know. He was a pragmatist who’d had no use for the occult dabblings of most of his fellow officers until he’d met Herjulfsen in the prison camp in England, when the warlock had swiftly dismantled the frauds believed by men like Backscheider and Hammerschlag before proving his own deadly accuracy with divination and one or two slightly darker arts that had helped the two of them to escape to America undetected. Von Waffenschmidt wasn’t entirely sure he believed that Herjulfsen was actually over a thousand years old, but he was not a weapons-smith in name only, and Herjulfsen held a lethal arsenal at his command—he was, as the Americans put it, the real deal. And though Herjulfsen was not particularly committed to the ideals of Nazism, as von Waffenschmidt was, the overthrow of the United States was a goal they both shared.

“Something is protecting those hunters,” Herjulfsen continued, “something very powerful. I would almost guess Loki, but I have never known him to concern himself with mortal affairs to this degree. And that is worrisome.”

“Why?” von Waffenschmidt frowned.

“There have been rumors about a new pair of hunters arriving in America, hunters who know far too much for beginners, who have very powerful weapons and almost no fear. These men have killed _Vanir_ without blinking, Erich, ones that have lain hidden in this country for centuries. It is even said that they have killed Azazel, one of the rulers of Hell. If ‘Cahill’ and ‘Cooper’ are these hunters, I don’t know if even I will have the power to defeat them.”

“What makes you think they might be, aside from the cards?”

“The interest in blood spatter. That suggests that they have dealt with daevas before, if they know to look for the daeva symbol in the blood. The idiot spirits cannot resist leaving their mark when they attack.”

“I thought daevas were too rare for a hunter to know that.”

“They _are!_ ” Herjulfsen stood and began pacing. “I tell you, Erich, these men know too much about _their_ business, _my_ business, regardless of what they may find out about yours. I don’t know who they are or how they came by such knowledge, how they came to warrant the kind of protection they seem to have, but they will have to be stopped somehow.”

Von Waffenschmidt sighed. “Is there anything you can do?”

Herjulfsen shook his head. “Until I know more, it would be too dangerous to attempt any kind of spell. And I would have to work remotely; a hex bag is too crude, too obvious. Especially if these men have worked with the Campbell family, they would be alert to any such attempts to attack them with witchcraft.”

“Very well. You may spy upon them in your way....” Von Waffenschmidt reached for the telephone. “And I shall spy upon them in mine.”

Herjulfsen chuckled. “Fair enough. I would say ‘may the better man win,’ but in this case, I think we shall both win.”

Von Waffenschmidt smirked and dialed.

* * *

Normally, Dean would have burned Officer Meissner’s business card the second he and Sam left the police department. Even if he hadn’t known the kid was a Nazi, he was way too shady about insisting that Dean take the card. But then, normally (at least in cases where he was stuck in the past), Dean wouldn’t have chosen an alias as potentially obvious as Jed Cooper. At least _Cahill, US Marshal_ wasn’t out yet—and Dean was _so_ going to give Sam a hard time about being a snob about Eastwood when he had at least as many John Wayne movies memorized. After the hunt, of course, when they’d wasted Herjulfsen and ditched his bugged card.

It felt kind of weird to _want_ the witch to know they were after him.

Having the IMF involved on this one was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, they already had all the info they needed to break into Herjulfsen’s house and break his altar, maybe torch it and some of his worse books and paraphernalia—hell, maybe the whole house with him in it. On the other hand, they had to play this out like a normal hunt, like they didn’t already know what was going on, to give Jim, Paris, and Willy time to take down the Nazis without arousing their suspicion _before_ they went after Herjulfsen.

Dean had a hunch, though, and pulled out his EMF meter and swept the motel room while Sam laid salt and set wards. Sure enough, it squawked quietly near the nightstand, and a quick examination revealed a microphone stuck under the edge, right where a person might stick a piece of gum.

Dean grinned. “Hey, Sam, which bed do you want?”

Sam looked at him in confusion, and Dean pointed to the bug. Sam grinned back at him. “Uh, doesn’t matter. You can have that one.”

Dean’s grin widened, and he pulled out Meissner’s card and burned it. “So! What are you thinking?”

“I dunno, dude,” Sam replied, starting up the conversation they’d rehearsed on the road to Effingham. “I guess it _could_ be a werewolf, but the moon’s wrong—a were would have attacked last weekend, but this thing didn’t. And the crime scenes....”

“All have that weird blood spatter pattern, yeah. Guess we’ll have to see what Rufus thinks when he gets here.”

“Y’know, this pattern looks familiar somehow.”

“ _Mark of Zorro_?”

“No, some... old Persian book I was reading for a World Religions class. But it wasn’t Muslim.... Zoroaster! That was it. Some Zoroastrian text.”

“Like I said.”

Sam scoffed. “Dean, Zoroaster has nothing to do with some stupid Tyrone Power movie.”

“Dude, shut up! You loved that movie as a kid.”

“Zoroaster was a Persian mystic who was credited with inventing astrology. His religion was based on revelations he received from the god Ahura Mazda.”

“Who the hell names a god after a Japanese car?” Dean snarked, knowing full well it was the other way around.

“ _Dean_.”

“So what does Don Diego have to do with our hunt?”

Sam sighed. “I dunno. That class was, what, ten years ago now? And it’s not like any of my notes survived the fire.”

“So we’ll have to wait for Rufus. Groovy.” The ’60s slang felt awkward, but _awesome_ was just a little too ’90s to be safe. “He was in Cleveland this morning; that’s, what, seven, eight hours depending on stops?”

“And traffic, yeah. But he should still be getting here fairly soon. You wanna get dinner or wait for him?”

Dean checked his watch. “Nah, let’s wait. I can’t decide what I want, anyway.”

Sam nodded. “Okay.”

A few minutes later, a coded knock announced Barney’s arrival. And not only did he step neatly over the salt line, it took only a “Hey, Rufus” for him to nod and step _completely_ into character, greeting the brothers exactly the way Rufus always did. He was so good at it that Dean almost suspected that he’d actually switched bodies with Rufus.

“Heard you had some excitement the other day,” Dean said, pointing to the bug, which Barney acknowledged with a nod. “Werewolf, was it?”

Barney nodded. “Yeah, had a guy tag along with me ’cause he was curious about the life.” He snorted. “Civilians. He actually shot the thing with a lead bullet to make sure it was real. Can you beat that?” But his eyes widened in a _That was possibly the scariest thing I’ve ever done_ look, or maybe _You people are insane for going after this stuff_ , which assured Dean that this really was Barney after all.

Sam chuckled. “You eaten yet? We were just about to go out for supper.”

“Let’s get something to go,” Barney replied. “There was a team of Feds working that case in New Hampshire, and I can’t be sure they didn’t connect me with the last death or trail me down here.”

“Feds?” Dean repeated. “Like, FBI?”

“US Marshals.”

Dean swore. “Just our luck we picked the Marshals for our cover this time.”

“I’m sorry, Dean. If I was sure, I’d have warned you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, Rufus. It’s not your fault. I’d say we split, but we can’t. This hunt’s too important.”

Sam nodded and picked up his jacket. “What sounds good? Burgers, pizza, Chinese?”

Barney considered. “Let’s go with Chinese. I’ve been eatin’ burgers for three days, and a cheese pizza doesn’t sound too good right now.”

Cheese pizza—kosher. The man was _good_.

Sam nodded and took their orders. Then Dean tossed him the car keys, and Sam left.

“You know,” Barney said as he sat down at the table, “I’ve been hearin’ some rumors about you fellas, too.”

This part of the conversation was planned but not scripted, and Dean suddenly wondered exactly how much Rufus might have said. “What kind of rumors?”

“You and Loki.”

“What about Loki?”

“Come on, Dean. You’re a hunter.”

Dean frowned. “So what? We take out things that are evil.”

“And Loki’s a pagan god. A _Trickster_.”

Dean’s frown deepened. “Y’know, Rufus, you’re startin’ to remind me of someone....”

Barney put up his hands. “I’m just askin’—are you sure he’s okay? Are you sure he’s no danger?”

“Hell, yes, he’s dangerous, and so are we. But we’ve talked with him.”

Barney waited exactly one beat. “You made a _deal_ with a Trickster?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “No. It’s nothing like that. It’s an alliance. He helps us, we let him do his thing as long as no one gets killed. He steps on a human, and all bets are off.”

“And just how the hell do you have the leverage to make that stick?”

So Rufus hadn’t told Barney very much at all. Dean decided he owed the man a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. “None of your business.”

“Dean....”

“We know how to gank him, Rufus. How to trap him, what weapon to use, everything. He’s not supposed to die until Ragnarok, but he knows we took out that scarecrow in Burkittsville. He knows we can; he knows we will. He’ll play ball or else.”

“That’s not gonna stop him from finding a way around you two. Now, I’ve heard—”

“I don’t _care_ what you’ve heard! Just take my word for it. Loki is on our side. No tricks. Now, can we drop this?”

“All right.” Barney threw up his hands again. “I just don’t want a repeat of what happened in June.”

June—that was the mission to Whatchamacallit, Nonamistan; the brothers hadn’t told either Bobby or Rufus about any of it apart from the fact that Dean might have flashbacks thanks to the drugs used to interrogate him. “Is _that_ what this is about? Really? Because as I recall, Loki _saved our lives_ that time.”

“Which he wouldn’t have had to do if you hadn’t—”

“Oh, so it’s _my fault_? You were there! You know what happened!”

“Yes, I know what happened. But rumors are rumors. I’ve heard some hunters asking why Sam would summon Loki for that instead of calling a human for backup.”

“Right, because a human could have gotten there in time and gotten in without raising suspicions.” Dean couldn’t tell whether Barney were seriously questioning the choice or whether he even believed Gabriel wasn’t human. Since this was supposed to be radio theater, though, it didn’t really matter; he needed to play it straight.

Barney shrugged. “I know. I’m just saying... it might be hard for you to find hunters to work with if they’re questioning your judgment. Whether you’re sane. Whether you’re even human.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” Dean made a show of grabbing his jacket. Barney couldn’t possibly know what the true state of other hunters’ opinion about the Winchesters was, and he might only have meant that Jim was questioning their judgment, but Dean couldn’t shake the memories of Gordon Walker, Roy and Walt, the Campbells....

Barney stood, no longer acting. “No, wait, Dean, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re right; Loki did pull us out of the fire on that one.”

Dean didn’t reply, but he didn’t walk out. He just looked down at his jacket and tried to get his emotions under control.

“You’re good hunters, you and Sam. I trust you. I just don’t want you getting killed for trusting the wrong person.”

“Loki. Isn’t. Cas.” Even as he growled that statement, Dean wondered how he knew it was true. But he did, in his heart of hearts. Gabriel _had_ gotten him out of that jail and made good on his promise to help the brothers corner and kill Azazel, _and_ he’d stood guard over them while their brains rebooted to compensate for the timeline shift. As much as he missed the Cas who would have done that without a second thought or an ulterior motive... somehow, knowing both Gabriel’s capacity for deceit and the reasons for his decisions to shoot straight made it easier to believe he was on the level now.

Barney looked confused for a split second, since he didn’t—couldn’t—know anything about what Cas had done. But then he shrugged, back in character. “All right. Just asking.”

Luckily, that was when Sam got back with the food, so they were able to focus on lighter subjects during the meal and then go back to the safer ground of talking about the hunt.

* * *

Barney felt way, way out of his depth once the Winchesters started describing their findings. Granted, in the context of the mission, it was okay for him to feel that way; Rufus had confessed to never having hunted daevas himself or personally knowing anyone other than Sam and Dean who had, so Barney’s lack of knowledge wasn’t out of character. And the slower they went with the hunt, the more likely it was that the rest of the team would be able to get enough evidence to shut down the neo-Nazis before anyone else got killed. It was still unsettling to have Sam and Dean looking to him for advice, even as an act, about something so far outside his ken.

Besides, the reason he believed in werewolves now was that he’d seen one, shot one. That didn’t mean he believed in shadow demons.

Forcing himself to stay detached about the horrific crime scene photos wasn’t easy, either. The victims had been ripped to shreds, as if by wild animals; the sheer volume of blood splattered around the scene and the number of visible but non-fatal claw and bite marks nixed the idea that the culprit could have been human. Having gotten a good look at the creature he’d helped hunt, though, Barney felt safe in agreeing that even if the moon had been right, the attacker wasn’t a werewolf. The shape of the bite marks was wrong, and the claw pattern didn’t match a werewolf’s mostly-human hand. Then Sam grabbed a marker to play Connect the Dots, and Barney had to confess that there was a Z pattern in the blood spatter and that it was probably significant.

“That still doesn’t tell us what we’re dealing with,” he noted, falling back on the script he’d worked out with Rufus. “At this point, there’s still too much we can’t rule out—vengeful spirit, shojo, skinwalker. Have you found any connections between the victims yet, or does it look random?”

Dean shook his head. “We hadn’t gotten that far yet, to be honest. We got a map of town, Sammy?”

Sam frowned thoughtfully. “Yeah, there’s one in the car, but... if we’re gonna do the Wall of Weird with this, might be better to wait until we’ve got more to go on than these police reports. I mean, there’s not much there; they were treating these like animal attacks.”

“All right, but let’s start with what we have. Six deaths in two months, gives us two apiece.” Dean grabbed the first two reports from the stack and slapped them down in front of Barney. “Here you go, Rufus,” he said with a teasing wink, to which Barney responded by rolling his eyes.

It didn’t take long for Barney to discover that Sam had been right. There was too little to go on in the police reports. That wasn’t terribly surprising, given that the investigating officers were members of the American Nazi Corps cell and were treating the cases as cut-and-dried wild animal attacks, but the hunters couldn’t acknowledge that fact aloud. All they could do was lament the lack of a clear pattern and decide to continue the investigation in the morning. Then Barney went to the front office, got his own room under the name of Ivan Dixon, and tried to get some sleep.

As he blocked the doors and windows in his room with lines of salt and cats-eye shells, he tried to tell himself that he was doing so to remain in character. It wasn’t terribly convincing. Neither was his attempt to tell himself that the windows were rattling from the wind and not due to the seemingly impenetrable shadows outside that he could somehow tell were looking for a way in but couldn’t get past his wards. He did manage to sleep some, but not well.

The next morning, while Sam and Dean interviewed the victims’ families and tried to check for EMF, Barney went to the library to dig up as much information as possible about the victims and about other mysterious deaths that might be linked to the ANC. When they reconvened over lunch, he asked if they’d found anything.

Sam shook his head. “Families aren’t talking.”

“Not sure if someone got to them,” Dean added, “or whether they even needed to. Hell, just knowing your dad spoke out and got mauled to death would be enough to shut most people up.”

Barney nodded. “I, on the other hand, have found plenty.” He slid his notebook across the table to Dean. “You guys can fill in the blanks at the PD; you’re going to want access to more files than just these six maulings. And while you’re doing that, I will head over to St. Louis to ‘find some lore’ on that Z.” He didn’t actually make scare quotes with his fingers, but they all knew that he was actually going to bring the rest of the team up to speed.

Dean nodded. Sam sighed.

Dean shot Sam a look. “What?”

“Just... wondering if we shouldn’t call the Campbells in on this.”

Dean frowned. “Why the hell would we?”

Sam shrugged.

“Seriously, Sam, we’re what, an hour from Greenville?”

“Exactly. This is kind of their territory.”

“And yet they haven’t picked up on what’s happening in their own backyard?”

Sam raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in concession.

“No, I mean it. Six deaths. They shoulda been up here after the third one.”

“Maybe they’re busy.” When Dean glared at him, Sam threw up his hands. “You’re not wrong. I’m just sayin’.”

Dean shook his head. “They may be blood, Sam, but they’re not family. And they sure as hell don’t need us to tell them how to do their job. After all, they are _professionals_.” That last word was dripping with so much bitter sarcasm that Barney half expected it to eat through the table.

Sam huffed. And Barney decided that this was one more story about his colleagues that he really didn’t want to know.

* * *

Von Waffenschmidt had not been as worried as Herjulfsen was when the first reports from the listening device planted in ‘Cahill’ and ‘Cooper’s’ room confirmed that these faux marshals were indeed the mysterious hunters said to be capable of killing just about anything that wasn’t human. It was entirely possible that they’d found the bug and were engaging in psychological warfare; he’d done so often enough himself as an SS officer. But once it became clear that they might begin to connect the daeva attacks to the ANC, von Waffenschmidt had signed off on Herjulfsen’s idea for stopping them: summoning their supposed patron, Loki. He didn’t know exactly what Herjulfsen hoped to accomplish other than trying to bribe the fickle Trickster god into abandoning his favorites, but it wouldn’t hurt to try, and this angle would be less likely to come to the hunters’ attention than a daeva attack—which had failed when tried on this Rufus fellow, though Herjulfsen claimed that he’d sent the daevas after Cahill and Cooper and that they’d been redirected by Loki—or a hex.

Now, in the middle of a sigil chalked on the floor, Herjulfsen was carefully mixing ingredients in a silver basin while chanting the summoning spell under his breath. He finally added a few drops of his own blood, finished the spell, lit a match, and dropped it in the bowl. The mixture flared up far more than was natural—but when the flash faded, no god had appeared. What did appear on the other side of the bowl from Herjulfsen was... a rubber chicken with a piece of wood tied to its neck. Said wood was engraved in Norse runes, which von Waffenschmidt couldn’t read. Herjulfsen picked it up, read it, and swore bitterly.

“What does it say?” von Waffenschmidt asked.

“It says, ‘Sorry, wrong number.’” Herjulfsen flung the note across the room in disgust.

 _Typical American sense of humor_ , von Waffenschmidt thought disdainfully—and then wondered why he’d done so.


	4. Chapter 3: The Noose Tightens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The content of this chapter is purely fictional and is not intended to reflect the real history of Effingham, of which I could find little online.

Back at the police department, Sam and Dean availed themselves of one of the conference rooms and started using the chalkboard to make a timeline of the cases Barney had dug up in the newspaper microfilm archives. As they worked, they kept one of the file clerks who _wasn’t_ a Nazi occupied with running back and forth to get stuff that in forty years could be retrieved with a push of a button. Sam tried not to feel too wistful about the Internet, but it wasn’t easy.

In any case, a pattern began emerging as the timeline took shape, and Barney had been right about it going beyond just the daeva attacks that had occurred in the past two months, the ostensible object of their hunt. Once it was finished, Sam stepped back to look at the information as a whole, then stepped forward again. “So. There was a spike in violent crime beginning in 1957, when the first interstate traffic started coming through.”

Dean nodded. “More minorities moving in, Civil Rights Movement heating up.”

“Exactly. More beatings, shootings, stabbings. But the spike ends here.” Sam drew a line after the last date in 1962. “There’s a threat of a federal investigation, so the authorities pin the killing spree on a black man whose death has been ruled a suicide—no trial, no question of whether or not the evidence will hold up in court.”

“Which it probably won’t, given what shows up in the letters to the editor around that time.”

“Numbers go back to normal for a year or so, other than a few out-of-the-ordinary deaths that appear to be suicides, and then there’s a spike in unexplained deaths from seemingly natural causes like internal hemorrhages and bathtub drownings. That lasts until two years ago”—here Sam drew another line—“when the city gets a visit from the CDC.”

“Alias Clan Campbell.”

“Likely, them or some other hunters looking into whether or not people are being hexed. Whatever they found, they didn’t actually succeed in getting rid of the problem. The mystery deaths stop, apart from some more unexplained suicides, until two months ago, when we start seeing so-called animal attacks.”

“And the list of victims looks like roll call at Auschwitz, but there’s no suggestion of foul play. The latest six fall into the same pattern. So we’re looking for one or more humans targeting minorities and other _Untermenschen_ or anyone who tries to do something about it, and our killer’s switched tactics twice: violence to curses to... our unknown monster.”

“So we’re looking at someone with a grudge and a grimoire.”

“Right.”

“That’s very interesting,” Jim stated from behind them.

Sam and Dean both turned to see Jim, Willy, and Paris coming further into the room from the doorway, where they’d been standing for close to the entire time the brothers had been recapping. Willy’s face was unreadable, but the other two looked faintly intrigued.

Dean cleared his throat. “Something we can help you gentlemen with?”

“Well, no, not at the moment. We’re investigating another serial case in New Hampshire and understood that one of our suspects had been seen here in Effingham. You can imagine our surprise to learn that there were other marshals here already.”

“Yeah, we’re... out of the Sioux Falls office, got word there might be a serial case down here.”

“Oh, Sioux Falls! You must be working for Ellsworth.”

“Uh, no, our supervisor’s Bill Miller.”

Willy raised a skeptical eyebrow at that.

Jim just nodded. “I see. Actually, we’re searching for a fugitive. Name is Rufus Turner, alias Sylvester Stewart, alias Jimmy Hendricks. Have you seen him, by any chance?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, trying to act more nervous than they felt. Dean cleared his throat again. “Uh, no, no, we... haven’t run into anybody by that name.”

“All right. You will let us know if you do see him, though, right?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, sure, that’s... that’s not a problem. Well, if there’s nothing else, we’ll... get out of your hair.” Dean nodded to Sam, who picked up the chalkboard eraser.

“No, wait,” Paris interrupted. “Leave that, would you? Could be relevant to our case.”

Jim nodded. “Yes, you see, Turner is a vigilante. He could be down here trying to stop what he sees as violence against blacks by an unknown assailant.” He pointed to the chalkboard. “This kind of information could help us narrow down who his target is likely to be.”

“Oh.” Sam put down the eraser. “Uh, okay. Um... oh, here are the police reports.” He picked up the stack and handed it to Paris. “There could be something in there—at least the recent cases all seemed to be investigated by the same three officers. Turner might try to find some connection between them.”

“Is there a connection among the cases?” Paris asked, opening the top folder. “The official murder rate is pretty low.”

“Well, it’s a hell of a coincidence if not,” Dean replied. “Six deaths in the last two months, all reported as animal attacks. No signs of forced entry. No animal prints at the scene. But all six had gotten crosswise with this group called the National Socialist Workers’ Party. Couple had gotten into fist fights with party members; couple had threatened to go to the FBI.”

“National Socialist,” Willy repeated, frowning. “Isn’t that the English translation of _Nazi_?”

Jim nodded. “Yes, it’s an open secret that the party is the political wing of the American Nazi Corps. But as frustrating as it might be, even Nazis are protected under the First Amendment. They have the right to speak freely, just like everyone else.”

Sam huffed. “Yes, but their right doesn’t include the right to stop others from expressing _their_ views. Permanently.”

“ _If_ that’s what’s happening here, gentlemen, then of course we’ll take appropriate action through the appropriate channels. Until then, we need to make sure Turner doesn’t try to take the law into his own hands.”

Dean took a deep breath. “Well. We’ll just leave that in your capable hands. Marshal Cahill and I need to go find ourselves some dinner, so... good luck.”

And with that, they left, stopping only to thank the file clerk for her help and resolutely not running back to the Impala. Sam loosened his tie as Dean backed the car out of its parking space, and they sighed almost in unison.

“I thought we’d ditched the protective custody angle,” Dean grumbled.

Sam shrugged. “Me, too, but given what we’re up against... y’know, maybe it’s better to have Herjulfsen locked up when we hit his house, make it less likely that he’d be able to stop us from breaking the altar.”

“Still means we’re gonna have to figure out how to kill him when it’s over.”

“Maybe not. Maybe the team can get enough on the Nazis that even if Herjulfsen doesn’t go to jail, he won’t have any reason to stick around.”

“Yeah, and then we _lose_ him.”

“Dean....”

“He’ll kill again, Sammy. Somebody somewhere’s gonna get on his bad side. Yeah, maybe he’s not like a vampire, where it’s something he can’t help, but you heard Doc Visyak. The guy’s gone serial at least once a century.”

“Look, I get it, and I don’t like the idea of him getting away, either. But if all we can do is stop the killings here in Effingham, then at least we’ll have saved _somebody_.”

Dean didn’t look happy about having to leave it there, but he didn’t reply, so Sam assumed he’d taken the point.

“We headed back to the motel?”

“Yeah. Guess we gotta keep playin’ dumb about daevas, keep ’em from figuring out which side’s actually onto ’em. I _hate_ this, Sam. This case is takin’ too damn long.”

“I know.” Sam sighed. “I can’t help wondering if someone else is going to die just because we’re taking our sweet time playing decoys.”

Dean shot him a worried look.

Sam caught it and shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen anything. I just....”

“Have a bad feeling.”

“Yeah.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah. So do I.”

They didn’t speak again until they got back to the motel, where Barney was waiting for them with Mexican take-outs. Once they were back in the room and had done a quick visual check to make sure the bug was still in place, they dug into their tacos and brought Barney up to speed on what they’d learned and who they’d met. The vigilante description made him laugh.

“So how was St. Lou?” Dean asked.

“Oh, fine,” Barney replied. “Explained a lot. Like why we haven’t heard from the Campbells.”

Dean paused with his beer halfway to his mouth. “Really?”

“Mm-hm. Seems Jeb Campbell, our ‘CDC agent,’ was killed in a single-vehicle crash on his way home, just outside of St. Elmo. Car rolled three times before it caught fire, not enough left of it or of Jeb for anyone to be able to tell what happened.”

Sam frowned. “But that stretch of I-70....”

“Is as straight and as flat as they come. You wouldn’t even hit a tree if you went off the road in most places. Evidently somebody didn’t want Jeb telling the rest of the family what he’d found—his journal and all his papers were destroyed in the crash, too. And look at this.” Barney handed Sam a library book on Zoroastrian mythology with a page marked. “I started from your hunch about Zoroaster and found out what kept rattling my windows last night. They looked like thick black shadows,” he added, vocally punching each of the last three words for emphasis.

Sam opened the book and read the description of daevas as if for the first time.

Dean swore quietly. “But the salt stopped ’em?”

Barney nodded. “Yeah. Good thing I took the precaution.” But the look on his face when Sam glanced up showed that he was very, very freaked out about the whole thing. Sam couldn’t blame him.

“Wonder why they went after you and not us,” Dean mused.

Sam huffed. “They’re being controlled by a racist, Dean. It’s not _that_ surprising.”

Dean frowned. “Controlled? What are you talking about?”

“Our friend with the grimoire.” Sam pointed to a part of the page he hadn’t read yet. “Says here daevas don’t normally just attack at random. They have to be summoned, conjured. It’s not easy, but a witch with enough mojo could keep ’em on a short enough leash to make the attacks effective.”

“Huh. Does it say how to kill ’em?”

“No. I mean, with enough light, you can keep ’em from manifesting, but that’s about it.”

Barney hummed thoughtfully and stuck a piece of gum in his mouth, then chewed it quickly as he walked toward the nightstand.

“What?” the brothers chorused.

“I just thought of something. Why don’t you two see if you can run down the witch while I go grab us some firepower?” Barney pulled the wad of gum out of his mouth and stuck it on the bug, effectively muting it. “All right, we can talk normally for a minute.”

Dean blinked. “We’ve got a flare gun.”

“I was thinking of something that would take down any humans in the room as well as the daevas—might even save you having to set foot inside if you can follow it with a Molotov fast enough.”

Sam frowned a little. “You’re thinking... a flashbang? Stun grenade?”

“Exactly. They’re not generally easy to come by, though, so....”

“That gives you an excuse to leave town,” Dean finished, nodding. “And it isn’t a weapon they’d be likely to think we have.” He paused, then got that grin that went with the idea of a new toy that goes bang and looked at Sam. “Dude. Flashbangs would be _awesome_.”

Sam heaved a put-upon sigh by way of agreement.

Barney laughed. “All right, then. I’ll go exchange this book for some explosives. You guys see if you can find out where Herjulfsen lives. I’ll be back by tomorrow night.”

Dean sobered. “Barney... be careful. Herjulfsen’s damn powerful. We don’t want you ending up like Jeb Campbell.”

Barney nodded. “I hear you. Rufus said the same thing. That’s why he gave me this.” He pulled up one of the leather cords around his neck to reveal the top of a hex bag. “I’d been wearing it to stay in character, but if it works as well as the salt and the shells seemed to....”

“Shells? Cats-eye?”

“Yup. Rufus insisted. And I’m glad he did.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, so are we.”

Dean nodded as well. “Better get a move on, then, so you can get back before nightfall tomorrow. And Barn... thanks.”

Barney just smiled, took the book back from Sam, and left.

Something occurred to Sam then, and he settled back in his chair. “I wonder....”

“What?” Dean asked.

“The Organized Crime Control Act gets passed next fall, and part of that is RICO. Wonder if the reason these guys are gathering funds any way they can is to try to buy off their legislators.”

“Thought RICO was for the Mafia.”

“Originally, yeah, but these killings definitely fit the ‘pattern of racketeering’ definition.”

Dean snorted. “If you say so, College Boy. You ask me, they’re saving up for a suitcase nuke.”

“Maybe we’re both right. In any case, the main thing is stopping them before they get any further with whatever their plan is.”

Dean raised his beer. “I’ll drink to that.”

Sam clinked beers with him and went back to eating.

* * *

ANC headquarters was in an uproar for much of the following day. This was hardly an unusual occurrence when a federal investigator or a hunter was in town, but never had there been Feds and hunters in town at the same time. Von Waffenschmidt tasked Meissner with stalling the marshals’ investigation as much as possible, but the rest of the cell’s leadership argued for hours over whether to cooperate to a safe extent with the marshals to receive protection against the hunters, to cooperate to a safe extent with the hunters to receive protection against the marshals, to play the two off against each other, or to try to run the lot of them out of town. Recriminations flew back and forth. Some blamed certain members for not having the nerve to continue silencing dissenters the old-fashioned way; others shot back that the old-fashioned way had been too crude and obvious and that more subtle methods should have been adopted from the first. There were those who maintained that witchcraft should never have been an option and those who maintained it should have been their only option. There were those who questioned whether Herjulfsen retained sufficient control over the daevas, which Herjulfsen answered by blaming Loki for everything that was going wrong. The discussions went nowhere and served only to infuriate everyone. And meanwhile reports kept rolling in from all over town.

The marshals were at the morgue, asking questions about unusual deaths.

The hunters were at the post office, asking questions about unusual purchases.

The marshals were at the bank, tracing inheritances.

The hunters were at the bank, tracing home loans.

The marshals were at the library, checking the newspaper archives for stories about the NSWP and the ANC.

The hunters were at the title office, checking houses purchased between the last lynching in 1962 and the first curse-related death in 1964.

The marshals were interviewing party members.

The hunters were interviewing families of those who died in the earlier purges.

The marshals were calling Langley.

The hunters were calling a psychic.

The marshals wanted to talk to the officers who’d investigated the daeva attacks.

The hunters had stolen the floor plans to Herjulfsen’s house from the city zoning office.

Finally, Meissner lost his nerve and ran back to headquarters. “Please, Col. Schachtschneider,” he pleaded, “work with the marshals. Take their protection. They’re asking too many questions that I don’t have answers to, but the hunters... they’re _dangerous_. I’m afraid they’ll try to kill us all!”

“Don’t be a fool,” Herjulfsen growled. “Hunters don’t kill humans save in self-defense.”

“Major, I tell you, I’m frightened! They have a black devil on their side, and you heard what they said about Loki!”

“Meissner!” von Waffenschmidt barked. “Gain control of yourself, or I shall have you transferred.”

Meissner looked around, saw that he would receive no support, and nodded once and turned to leave.

“Meissner!” Herjulfsen called after him. “If you go to the marshals yourself, you will not live to regret it.”

Meissner hesitated for only a moment before continuing on his way. As he drove off, he debated which threat was the greater. Maj. Herjulfsen, he knew, had a bad temper, but if salt and light were enough to keep the demons at bay, he wasn’t sure what other danger there might be. Yet if he told the marshals enough to save their lives, he might be rewarded. On the other hand, if he said nothing... he could go to prison, or worse. There were still the hunters, after all. Cahill and Cooper were _deadly_ men; he’d known it from the moment they arrived. There was something in their eyes, in their bearing, that was more than human. Even the black one, Turner, had questioned it.

As he waffled, Meissner found himself driving past the police station. The marshals’ car was still there. If it hadn’t been, he might have gone home, but as it was, he decided to turn in and throw himself on their mercy.

Barely had he taken two steps on the sidewalk toward the door, however, when he felt sharp, burning pains in his stomach, followed by his throat rapidly swelling shut. He was dead before he hit the ground.


	5. Chapter 4: You Don't Know What We Can Find

At the Rock Island Arsenal, Barney loaded a case of stun grenades into the trunk of his car, closed the trunk, and turned—to find himself suddenly face to face with ‘Loki.’ “Hey!” he said with a smile once he got over the startle and placed the man. “Sorry, didn’t hear you walk up. The boys didn’t tell me you’d be here.”

“I wasn’t,” Loki replied grimly. “We got trouble in River City. They need you back right away.”

Then Loki snapped his fingers—and suddenly Barney and his car were behind a warehouse with Paris and the Winchesters. Paris looked as startled as Barney felt; Sam and Dean seemed to think people appearing out of thin air was normal.

“What—how—” Paris spluttered.

“Loki,” Barney replied.

Sam nodded. “Figures. Not that we asked him,” he added hastily.

“Thanks, dude,” Dean said to no one in particular—or maybe to someone in particular who wasn’t visible but whose presence could be assumed. Barney’s sense of what was real and what wasn’t had taken a real beating on this mission.

Barney took a deep breath and let it out again. “He said something about trouble?”

Paris nodded. “Officer Meissner was found dead outside the police department about half an hour ago. Official cause of death is anaphylaxis. Seems he was stung to death by wasps—from the inside.”

“... Wasps?”

“Yellowjackets,” Dean clarified. “Looked like he’d swallowed a whole nest. Stomach was full of ’em.”

Barney shuddered. “Happy Halloween.”

Paris shrugged one eyebrow. “Apparently between the two angles of approach, we’ve been getting too close to the truth. The three Nazis on the force have been trying to stonewall us, but our best guess is that Meissner couldn’t take the pressure anymore. He was about to tell us something.”

“Tell you everything is probably more like it,” said Dean. “But either way, Herjulfsen wasn’t taking any chances. And that brings up another problem.”

Sam nodded. “We were casing Herjulfsen’s house when Meissner died; there was nobody there. And Willy’s been watching Schachtschneider’s office and said Herjulfsen hasn’t left all day. So unless he was working from memory and his own mojo to cast that hex on Meissner, he’s got stuff stashed at the office. If there’s a grimoire, especially, it’s probably in Schachtschneider’s safe. We need to destroy that as well as the altar that’s at his house; we can’t run the risk of someone else getting hold of those spells.”

“Jim is planning to take Schachtschneider and Herjulfsen into ‘protective custody’ once they’re away from the office,” Paris continued, “and his reason will be that you somehow managed to attack Meissner with a wasp nest. He’ll radio when he has them. We’ve got a warrant to search the office, but to minimize suspicion, I’ll be going in disguised as Schachtschneider, pick up his car on the pretense of taking it to the impound yard. You, Sam, and Dean will watch the security monitors, make sure no one sneaks up on me and radio me any pointers about Herjulfsen’s paraphernalia that I’ll need to retrieve.”

Barney nodded slowly. “But you’ll need some way to get into that safe once you’re in the office.”

Paris hesitated for a second. “True.”

Barney nodded again more decisively, finally back on familiar ground. “Lucky for you, I came prepared.” He opened the trunk again and reached into a hidden compartment, then pulled out a device he’d invented several years earlier for silently identifying a safe’s combination; it slid over the dial, and a light switched on when the tumblers clicked home. “That should do the trick.”

Paris accepted the device and pocketed it. “I’ve already got the radio earpiece, and Dean has a radio.”

Dean waved said radio in confirmation, one of the miniature ones Barney had developed for the IMF that was small enough to fit in the pocket of a suit coat.

Barney nodded in satisfaction. “Good deal. Well, I guess this is as good a place as any for us to wait to hear from Jim; we can get Sam and Dean set to take down Herjulfsen’s house.”

“And we are gonna need to take out the whole house,” Dean stated. “We couldn’t look in every window during the day, but he’s got the place landscaped in such a way that a civilian wouldn’t know there’s not a live plant within ten yards of it. Flashbangs and Molotovs will be perfect; even with hex bags, I ain’t goin’ in there unless we have to.”

Sam huffed in agreement. “Yeah, and the further we can keep Barney from the house, the better. I mean, no offense, Barney, you’re awesome, but you’re still pretty much a civilian. And this really isn’t a job for an amateur.”

Barney shook his head. “Oh, no offense taken. I’m not superstitious, and you know I’ve seen a lot, but there is some stuff I do not want to mess with. Helping Rufus kill that werewolf was bad enough. If those really were daevas outside my room the other night?”

“Probably,” the brothers chorused.

Barney shivered again involuntarily.

Paris looked from the Winchesters to Barney and back warily. “All right, well, I need to get a mask made for Schachtschneider, so I’ll meet you guys at ANC headquarters.”

The other men made various noises of farewell, and Paris left.

Then Dean looked at Barney more closely. “Hey. You doin’ okay?”

Barney sighed and nodded. “Yeah, yeah, it’s just... kind of hard to get my head around. We do so much with special effects that there’s a lot I don’t believe in, but this....”

“No fakes. It’s all real.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, no, we get it. It’s a lot different from what you’re used to. And it’s not like this kind of thing is stuff you can unlearn.”

“And what about Loki?”

“He’s not human. But he is on our side.”

Barney sighed. “So what are the odds I’m gonna need to use this information from here on out?”

“Honestly?” Sam replied. “Probably pretty low. Especially with cases like this one—I mean, we’ve dealt with some pretty old witches in our time, but Herjulfsen’s definitely the oldest and strongest we’ve seen. Most of the time, it’s just somebody messing around with stuff that’s out of his or her league; they don’t really know how dangerous it is. Demon possessions are pretty rare right now, and a lot of the monsters that are capable of controlling their bloodlust are pretty well flying under the radar, especially the ones that are closest to being hunted to extinction. Yeah, you might be more likely to run into genuine ghosts, but it’s not like you’re going to be walking into a nest of vampires every time you turn around.”

Barney nodded. “Is there anything that _isn’t_ real?”

“Aliens,” the Winchesters chorused with completely straight faces.

“’Course, there’s a lot of stuff out there that’s not as advertised,” Dean continued. “But yeah, aliens. And unicorns,” he added, gently elbowing Sam in the ribs.

Sam snorted. Dean snickered. Barney sighed and pulled the box of stun grenades out of the trunk to hand to Dean, then went back for the box of empty glass bottles.

* * *

As soon as Jim radioed that he had the Nazis in custody, Dean had Barney follow the Impala to ANC headquarters, assuming they’d need separate vehicles so Barney could leave town while Sam and Dean took out Herjulfsen’s house. Barney’s emergency spy kit included a small canister of nerve gas, which he released into the HVAC system to knock out all of the security personnel just to be safe. The three of them waited outside until Barney declared it safe to go in. Then Sam picked the lock on the back door, and they got settled in the security room just in time for the parking lot camera to pick up Schachtschneider’s car pulling into the lot. Paris had shades on when he got out, but otherwise he looked exactly like the pictures of Schachtschneider that they’d seen.

“It’s all clear, Paris,” Barney radioed.

Paris barely nodded and made his way in through the front door. He didn’t hesitate at all on his way to Schachtschneider’s office, but pretty soon Dean began to notice something odd about the way Paris was moving.

Sam leaned over and whispered as softly as possible, “Does it look like Paris is deliberately facing away from the cameras?”

Dean nodded. And the choices were precise, as if Paris knew exactly where each camera was. There might be any number of innocent explanations for that, of course; the Winchesters hadn’t worked with Paris before, so they had no way of knowing whether he was simply trying to hide a flaw in a quickly-made mask or if something else was going on. But hunter instinct currently had ‘something else’ way in the lead.

Sam sighed and turned his attention to the view of Schachtschneider’s office, studying the objects that were visible to the camera. After a moment, he reached for the radio. “Paris, it’s Sam. When you walk into the office, there’s a small altar to the left of the desk, under the window. Put everything that’s on it into the trash can, and bring the trash can and the altar out to us, plus whatever you find in the safe. Also check the desk drawers; there might be spell components hidden in there.”

Paris nodded once, and shortly thereafter he entered the office, picked up the trash can, and swept the altar’s contents into it with his arm. Then he examined the wall behind the desk and quickly found the painting behind which the safe was hidden. And still he kept his head angled away from the camera while he opened the safe.

However, as Paris swung the safe door open, Barney frowned. “That’s weird. He didn’t use the device I gave him. How’d he know the combination?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “Maybe Jim got it for him?” Sam ventured.

The look Barney shot back told Dean that none of them really believed that.

But the point was moot. The safe was open, and Paris retrieved the grimoire and dropped it into the trash can. Then he pulled out some other books and papers, flipped through them, and tucked them under one arm while he closed the safe and replaced the painting. After that, he turned and set the stack of papers on the desk as he bent down to pick the locks on the desk. In so doing, for a fraction of a second, his eyes crossed the camera’s field of view—and Dean caught the tell-tale flash of retinal flare.

“That’s not normal,” Barney said slowly.

Sam and Dean exchanged another look. “Guess it’s something to worry about after we’re done here,” said Dean.

Barney met that with a raised eyebrow, but Sam nodded back toward the monitors, where the office cam showed Paris pulling material for a summoning spell and a black bag of other stuff out of one of the desk drawers. The bag went in the trash can with everything else; the summoning stuff went on the desk while Paris retrieved the altar. Then he situated the altar under one arm and put the books, papers, and summoning stuff on top of it in such a way that nothing would fall as he walked. Finally, he picked up the trash can and hurried out of the room.

“We’re parked in back. We’ll meet you outside,” Sam radioed, and the three of them made a hasty exit of their own.

Paris met them at the back door, which Dean held open for him. “Barney,” he said in his own voice as he handed the trash can to Sam, “you need to get these records over to Jim right away. Schachtschneider’s real name is von Waffenschmidt; he’s a wanted war criminal. And the reason for the fundraising is that he and Herjulfsen plan to stage a takeover at the general meeting of the ANC next month, then force the Corps onto a more militant path, with the goal of overthrowing the federal government before the mid-term elections next year. He’s been planning this since the IMF got von Frank killed two years ago, wants to take advantage of the power vacuum.” As he talked, Paris handed the summoning stuff off to Dean, the books and papers to Barney, and the altar to Sam.

Barney frowned. “Now how the hell did you....”

“Just take that to Jim, would you?” Paris insisted. “The sooner we end this, the better for all of us.” And without waiting for anyone to respond, he dashed off toward his own car.

Barney turned his puzzled frown to Dean. “But... how....”

Dean sighed and shook his head. “We’ll talk to him.”

“Now what does that mean?”

“It means we’ll _talk_ to him, okay? Nobody’s getting hurt. But he’s right about one thing; you should get that stuff to Jim ASAP. We should torch this stuff here, and if there’s any blowback, we don’t want you in the line of fire.”

Barney didn’t look happy about it, but he nodded. “All right. See you on the flip side.” Then he got in his car and drove off.

While Sam set the altar in the middle of the parking lot and started separating out the inflammable stuff from the things that would burn, Dean got the salt and gas out of the trunk of the Impala. A few minutes later, they had a nice cheerful bonfire going, and the atmosphere seemed lighter already, even though the sun was almost down.

“We shoulda brought marshmallows,” Dean joked.

Sam snorted. “Yeah, like you want to ingest something that’s been cooked over _that_.”

As if to prove Sam’s point, the grimoire caught fire just then and let out a cloud of foul-smelling smoke.

Dean choked and coughed. “Good point.”

Sam smiled a little and brought Dean a beer. And together they watched just long enough to make sure that if the fire went out the second they drove away, nothing usable could be salvaged from the embers. Then they packed the metal items into the trunk and headed off to Herjulfsen’s house, which was just past the edge of town.

They were about two minutes out when Dean finally sighed. “So.”

“Paris.”

“Yeah.”

“You told Barney we’d talk.”

“Should we?”

“He didn’t do anything until he had to, for the success of the mission.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“He doesn’t act homicidal, Dean. I say we give him the benefit of the doubt for now. It worked with Dr. Visyak.”

Dean sighed and nodded. “Yeah, okay. But we talk to him ASAP.”

“Definitely.”

“After we take care of Herjulfsen.”

“Agreed.”

They were silent the rest of the way to the witch’s house, and when they arrived, most of the conversation dealt with strategies for the most effective use of the firepower they had. They finally decided to attack the top floor first, with Sam throwing the flashbangs and Dean throwing the Molotov cocktails.

Then Sam paused. “You think we’ll black out this time?”

Dean thought about it, then shook his head. “No. I already don’t remember much about this place, and from what the journal says, sounds like Dad never was able to pin Herjulfsen down long enough to stop him. Probably disappeared when Dad got too close, lay low long enough to get off Dad’s radar, decided to give up on the skinheads after that. Or else the daevas turned on him, like they did Meg.”

Sam nodded slowly. “Might explain why Caleb already had that piece of lore when we called him.”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re thinking we only black out when our brains have to rewrite _our_ memories to compensate for a change?”

Dean shrugged. “Makes sense. Plus, if we’ve already changed the events that sent Dad here in the first place....”

“Changing the hunt doesn’t matter. It already didn’t happen.”

“Exactly.”

“Huh.” Sam pondered that for a moment. “Guess that does make sense. Awesome.”

Dean handed Sam the box of flashbangs. “You ready?”

“Yeah. Let’s do this.”

Dean nodded, picked up the box of Molotov cocktails, and carefully closed the trunk with his elbow.

* * *

Jim paced in the interrogation room, debating his next move. Thanks to Paris and Barney, they had what they needed to shut down this ANC cell for good, but they couldn’t prove yet that the mysterious maulings occurring in Effingham these last two months were genuine murders, never mind linking them to Schachtschneider or Herjulfsen. And for the life of him, Jim couldn’t figure out how to get that evidence in a way that would stand up in court. If the Winchesters were right about Herjulfsen’s motives, even if they were wrong about his means... how in the world was Jim supposed to make sure the victims’ families got the closure they needed by seeing justice done?

He was still pondering the question when anguished screams started coming from the cell block where the suspects were being held.

Concerned, Jim raced out of the interrogation room, meeting Willy in the hall and catching up to several other officers on their way. The prisoners were all yelling for help when the authorities burst in; it was after lights out but not yet midnight, so Jim couldn’t be sure if this was a Halloween-night gag or what. Everyone else seemed to be treating it seriously.

“ _Herr Marschall!_ ” Schachtschneider cried, wild-eyed with terror, as Jim passed. “ _Ich sage Ihnen alles—alles, was Sie wissen wollen! Nur retten Sie mich von den Teufel!_ ”

“Somebody turn the lights on!” Willy barked.

The lights came on seconds later, and seconds after that the officers reached Herjulfsen’s cell and swore in shock. Even Jim, who’d seen some awful crime scenes in his time, recoiled when he saw what had happened to the supposed witch. Herjulfsen’s body, badly mutilated and clearly missing the heart, lay sprawled on the floor of the cell in a pool of blood that was splattered or smeared away from the corpse like finger paint. There was no way any human assailant could have gotten away in the time it had taken the authorities to get to the scene, and there were no footprints or signs of forced entry, only the tell-tale Z found at the other crime scenes.

“They bite the hand that wields them,” Willy murmured.

And for the first time, Jim wondered whether the Winchesters were really as crazy as they seemed.


	6. Epilogue

This job didn’t disgust Paris often. Playing von Waffenschmidt was one time that it did, so much so that he wanted to shed his skin afterward. Once he was back in his own clothes, he bundled up the remains of his role and hurried to where he knew Herjulfsen’s house would still be burning, parking far enough away not to attract attention and walking the rest of the way. Then he tossed his last ties to the Nazi scum into the inferno and watched in satisfaction as the flames claimed them.

He was halfway back to his car when he saw the Winchesters waiting for him.

Stifling his initial reaction, which was to panic, Paris continued on his way. They didn’t look like they wanted to kill him, so it made more sense not to run. And indeed, neither brother made any move toward a weapon as he approached; instead, they watched him with carefully neutral faces.

As soon as he was within earshot, however, Dean asked quietly, “Your masks aren’t latex, are they?”

Busted. “Sometimes,” Paris replied cautiously.

“Sometimes?”

“There are times when crafting a latex mask... helps. And sometimes I need one for the sake of the team.”

“Look, we know about Hand. We’re not here to hurt you. Just level with us.”

Paris sighed. “Yes. I’m a shapeshifter. Just about all of the IMF disguise artists are.”

Sam frowned. “Seriously? How—I mean—how do you....”

“Can we have this discussion somewhere else? Get coffee or something? It’s kind of a long story.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam. Sam raised both eyebrows back. Dean looked back at Paris and shrugged. “Sure. We’ll follow you.”

Again, Paris wrestled down the flight response. He was on his honor, but they were also in an Impala; his Plymouth station wagon would be no match for the hunters’ car if he tried to make a break for it. And they could have shot him by now if they’d intended to kill him on principle. “Sure. There’s a place a few miles up the road in Teutopolis; it’s right on Main Street.”

Dean nodded, and he and Sam went back to their car and waited for Paris to lead. Though his palms were sweating, Paris forced himself to go the speed limit and signal any turns early, and they arrived at the coffee shop without incident. To be perfectly honest, Paris would really rather have had a few shots of tequila, but he didn’t want to risk the Winchesters thinking he was trying to get _them_ drunk. So he ordered a small coffee and a large Danish and wasn’t surprised when Sam ordered a vanilla mocha latte or when Dean ordered a slice of cherry pie with his coffee.

Once the waitress left their table, Paris sighed. “I suspect Rollin and I are the only sane shifters you’ve ever met.”

“You could say that,” Sam replied.

“We’ve met the Alpha,” Dean added, “but we didn’t exactly talk much.”

Paris snorted. “No, I imagine not. Well, there are some things you should know about us before I tell you my story.”

Dean shrugged. “Shoot.”

“Of all children of the Mother, shapeshifters are perhaps the closest to human. Shifters are sired, not turned. We don’t have to kill humans for food. We have only two impulses that are difficult to control or ignore. One is the desire to shift, to mimic. Some use that impulse for crime; others of us choose professions where we can put it to legitimate use. The other is the need to breed, and even the Alpha can’t ignore it forever.”

Sam frowned. “So have you—”

Paris shook his head. “Not knowingly. I take precautions. I expect I’ll have to sire a child sometime, but... I’d like to marry first. I’m not abandoning my child the way my father did.”

Both brothers raised their eyebrows at that, but they were interrupted by the arrival of their food. Once the coast was clear again, Dean asked, “Your dad walked out on you?”

Paris raised a hand. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but there’s still some more background you need. All shifters have some traits in common, like silver toxicity, but others depend on the proportion of human DNA to shifter DNA. The closer a shifter is genetically to the Alpha, the greater the control over one’s powers. A half-shifter, for example, _can_ shed his skin, but he doesn’t have to do so in order to shift, and it’s fairly easy to keep one’s own identity intact and separate from the person one shifts into. The same is true of a quarter-shifter, though a simple shift takes more effort than it does for a half-shifter. Once the balance shifts beyond that—in someone who’s only an eighth shifter or less—shifting without shedding becomes impossible, and I suspect that’s also the point at which the conflict between the shifter and human natures and the potential confusion of identities becomes more likely to lead to mental instability. There’s also the question of upbringing. A lot of shifters prefer to breed as males so that they can do as the Alpha does.”

Dean nodded. “Replace Dad, have some fun with Mom, and split before Dad comes home.”

“Like a cuckoo leaving its egg in another bird’s nest,” Sam added.

Paris nodded. “Exactly. And that includes some who are born female; either they don’t want the child or they don’t want to be locked in one form for nine months. Others do want the child, and they stay female long enough to raise it. One of our female colleagues, Casey, is a quarter-shifter; her mother fell in love with a human man and raised Casey as normally as she could. That also makes a difference in helping a shifter not grow homicidal.”

“So are all the IMF shifters at least quarter-shifters?”

“Yes. Keep in mind what was happening when we were born. In the ’20s, there were a lot of people of both sexes looking for a good time; in the ’30s, there were a lot of husbands gone looking for work and a lot of wives in need of physical comfort. There were too many opportunities to pass up, even for the Alpha—especially for the Alpha. I don’t know how many shifters were born in those years. Most of them joined the military after Pearl Harbor or were drafted, for that war or Korea. Most of the mostly-human ones didn’t make it back; even with conventional weapons, there are some things even we can’t survive.”

Sam and Dean looked at each other and each took a drink of coffee. Paris got the sense that they neither wanted nor needed to ask.

“As for me, my mother has been blind since birth. She married a man who loved her very much, but in 1930, he had to leave town for a couple of months to get what work he could as a farm hand. Mother expected him back at the end of June, and the night he was due to arrive, someone who sounded and felt like him came in and received a... very enthusiastic welcome. He was gone by morning, and that afternoon, Mother received word that her husband had been killed the night before when a drunk driver hit him head on. She was understandably confused, especially when she learned that she was pregnant, but she couldn’t conclude that my father—my sire, really—hadn’t been the man she married.

“I don’t remember much about those early years, when I first figured out what I could do or when Mother figured out that I wasn’t a normal child. I do remember that she never loved me any less. Maybe the fact that she’s blind made it easier; maybe she’d love me even if she could have seen me then. But it helped. It helped a lot. No matter what happened at school, I always knew my mother loved me.”

Dean took a long drink of coffee then and started picking at his pie. Paris wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Sam cleared his throat. “So did you find out who your sire was?”

Paris nodded. “Eventually, after I talked with Rollin, when he recruited me for the IMF. He quizzed me about my powers and figured out that I must be a half-shifter. I don’t usually need to shed, but sometimes it’s cathartic.”

“Like tonight.”

“Yeah. I’ve heard that some of the less-stable shifters went Nazi just to have a chance to get their kicks without fear of hunters, but... well, you know what the SS did to the _Untermenschen_. You can imagine what they did to the _Ungeheuer_.”

“And is this the form you were born with?”

Paris laughed. “No, actually, it isn’t quite. My best friend in school was a boy named Leonard. We already looked somewhat alike when we met, and people were always getting us confused anyway. So, with his permission and Mother’s, I... kind of became his twin. We figured it would work because people hardly ever saw us when we _weren’t_ in the same room!”

That even got a laugh out of Dean.

“We were pretty inseparable until we joined the Army. After that, we both got into acting, but Leonard went on to Hollywood, does a lot with TV and movies now. I can’t, for obvious reasons, so I stuck with the stage—quick change acts and so on, nightclub circuit—and thought that was the life until Rollin came by one night to talk me into joining the IMF.”

Dean swallowed the bite of pie that was in his mouth. “Now, what’s the deal with Rollin? How’d he find you?”

Paris sighed. “Rollin is possibly the closest thing to a pure-blooded shifter alive now, aside from the Alpha. He’s three-quarters; his mother was half.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up, and he looked at Sam, who grimaced. Then Dean looked back at Paris. “Wait, wouldn’t the Alpha....”

“Recognize his own daughter? I would have thought so. Rollin’s mother won’t tell him what happened, only that she was desperate for a child. She taught him to control his powers early, so her husband doesn’t know Rollin’s not his son. Rollin grew up in a stable home, tried to join the OSS right out of high school, went on the stage when they turned him down, and jumped at the chance to join the IMF when it was founded. To the best of my knowledge, he recruited all of the shifters who are on the Force now—recognized patterns in the dossiers, recognized kin when he came to talk to us.”

“And you’re doing it because....”

Paris shrugged. “It’s our country, too.”

“Wow,” Sam replied, breaking into a grin. “This is awesome. I mean, we always knew it was possible in theory for shifters to live like normal humans, but we’d never met one before who was actually doing it.”

Dean sat back, frowning a little. “Who else knows? I mean, besides the other shifters.”

Paris shook his head. “No one. Not even the Secretary. It’s too risky to let anyone else in.”

“Well, Barney’s about to figure it out, if he hasn’t already. We caught a flash of the retina flare. He saw it and commented on it.”

Sam nodded. “And if he doesn’t ask us about it, or Rufus... he’ll probably talk it over with Willy. They seem pretty close.”

Paris sighed. “Okay. I’ll talk to him. But we cannot— _cannot_ —tell Jim. We go on way too many missions where he intentionally gets captured. He usually has some kind of hypnotic block set to trigger when he does get captured, but if something goes wrong and if his subconscious knows that I could be literally anyone even without the makeup....”

Dean’s chin went up. “So that’s what you meant.”

“Yeah. The rest of the team knows how to recognize the edges of a mask. IMF policy, Rollin’s idea. There are cases where it’s far too dangerous for the others not to be sure which version of a human is real and which is their teammate. Saved Jim’s life last year, matter of fact. A less stable shifter, assassin working for an unfriendly government, got the drop on Rollin, but he was in such a hurry that when he shed, the new skin didn’t quite fit right on his neck and crêped like a mask edge. Jim recognized it, pulled enough loose to prove that it wasn’t Rollin, and shot him—with silver bullets Rollin had loaded in Jim’s gun without Jim’s knowledge.”

The brothers looked at each other. “Brave new world,” Sam muttered.

“We _sure_ we wanna keep doin’ this?” Dean asked. “I mean, shifter assassins? Nazi witches? What’s next, the head of the KGB is a dragon?”

Paris chuckled. “Honestly? Most of the unstable shifters out there would just as soon go serial in their own neighborhoods. Ventlos is the first one I’d heard of working on the other side. No, from a supernatural perspective, this job’s usually a cakewalk. It’s the humans you have to watch out for.”

Sam’s mouth quirked into a wry smile. “Like you always say, Dean.”

“Demons I get,” Dean replied by way of agreement, lifting his mug in salute. “People are crazy.”

Paris and Sam clinked mugs with him and drank.  



End file.
